Misty Memories

My dad’s car has broken indicator lights at the moment (not surprising - the car is a BMW so they are rarely used ;) ) so this morning, on the way to drop me off at the station, he stuck his arm out the window to indicate that he was about to turn right (bearing in mind, dear North Americans that we were on the left hand side of the road so the right window was the driver’s side… I don’t actually know what we’d have done if we turned left, but luckily there was no need to.) All of this is a convoluted introduction to the fact that my dad manually indicating reminded me of a story that made me roar when I was little. (With laughter, not anger.) Once upon a time, driving tests in the UK tested this very sort of manual indicating. The manoeuvre went: mirror, indicate by sticking arm out window, return right hand to steering wheel, change gear, return left hand to steering wheel, indicate a second time and turn. Simple enough, yes? However, one of my dad’s best friends, my uncle Sean, got himself a bit flustered and accidentally skipped the “return right hand to steering wheel step” so found himself with one hand on the gear stick, the other hand out the window, and by process of elimination we can deduce that there were no hands on the steering wheel. He failed the test.
So I commented to dad that he had been rather more successful at indicating than Uncle Sean (to be fair, the car is an automatic and I am less fluster-inducing than your average driving examiner) and dad replied “you never forget anything, do you?” Which is true. I have memories of our trip to Blackpool when I was 18 months (I was scared of the wax figures on the Pier) I can remember going to visit my mum and sister in hospital when Laura was born - I was 2 ½ - (I utterly ignored Laura because I was much more interested in the baby in the cot next to her,) and hiding her Wendy House on her 3rd birthday (I was 5) crying because I thought everyone had forgotten me. I have an almost infallible memory for conversations (particularly gossip, I never forget gossip, and regularly annoy the hell out of anyone who tells me juicy titbits by announcing “umm, the last time you told that story, you said…”) and could recite every line I uttered onstage as Abigail in The Crucible in high school.
Yet none of this helps me remember my cell phone when I leave the house. Or tickets when I am on my way to the theatre. Or passport when I leave for the airport… actually - passport! I must get my passport renewed or else I won’t be going anywhere this summer…
I mentioned this to my dad in the car this morning, then ably proved my point by proceeding to cheerily call “bye then, thanks for the lift, see you tonight!” and hop out the car… at least, I would have hopped out the car had I not forgotten to unclick my seat belt.
My sister reminded me three times on Wednesday that she would be out on Thursday night so there would be no one to pick me up at the station… which didn’t stop me phoning for a lift when I got on the train.
However, if anyone would like a full census of Ramsey Street circa 1987, each character’s backstory and sundry entanglements not to mention the full CV of the actor that played them… then I’m your girl.

The Stations of Bobby

And now for something really different! The reason I have been a bit neglectful of this blog recently is that I have been scrabbling to keep up to date on some other projects... so I thought why not kill two birds with one stone?! The following short story is a first draft - might be a bit bollocks, who knows yet? Some feedback would really help, so please feel free to comment!
(Oh - and any RBers reading will guess where I nicked the nickname from, so apologies and thanks to you-know-who!)

In a flat that soared so high in the sky that the only view was murky clouds, Tamara McKellon gritted her teeth against the protests of her arthritis ridden fingers as she carefully placed items in her cavernous bag in preparation for the evening’s mission. Crossing to the brass framed mirror that had been her pride and joy when she bought it thirty years ago, she carefully applied her favourite passion-red lipstick. It had been a while since she’d done this, she thought ruefully, staring into the mirror and wondering who the old woman was staring back at her.
This wasn’t the gallus young thing that Bobby had proudly escorted. Glam Tam, they’d called her, Bobby and his Dazzler. See ya Tamara, Bobby would call when he dropped her off after a night at the dancing, and she could hear him cackling as he strode off into the night.
Placing her fingers at her temples and her thumbs below her cheekbones, Tamara lifted until she could feel the strain at her hairline, and for an instant she saw the girl about town that was still buried somewhere deep inside. Then she let go and her face sagged back into its crevices that betrayed the ravages of time. Tamara sighed. Glam Tam was long gone.

Jamie furrowed his brow as he pounded his frustration out on the football that ricocheted off the wall of their block of flats. Mum had told him and Sean to scram while she made dinner and got the baby down. Did it matter that Jamie had been just about to reach level 11 on his Playstation? No. Did it matter that Jamie didn’t want to go outside and be stuck with whiny Sean? No. Jamie couldn’t stand it the way adults just pleased themselves all the time and Jamie had no choice but to put up with it. Eleven, he decided was the shite-est age to be, because you were old enough to know how rubbish being a kid was, but not old enough to do anything about it.
“Give me a shot -- ”
There was Sean, whining away as usual. Well fine –
“Owww – what did you do that for?”
Sean’s forehead smarted bright red from where the ball had smacked it.
“You said that you wanted the ball.” Jamie replied mutinously. Sean was going to tell mum, Jamie knew it.
“Not in the face though!” Sean stamped his foot in indignation, lower lip trembling, Jamie noted in disgust.
“It was an accident,” he muttered.
He went back to pounding the ball, pretending that was mum’s head, Mrs McKellon’s head, Sean’s head. Everyone that deserved it.

The lift doors pinged open and Tamara emerged briskly, determined not to betray the strain her heavy bag put on her aching shoulders. She crossed the lobby and winced as a cold blast of damp, stinging October air hit her full in the face. She could see today far enough, she thought, and briefly considered returning to her cosy flat and forgetting the whole thing. A promise is a promise though, she thought grimly. Unfortunately, she added to herself, cursing the sense of honour that had dogged her pursuit of fun for the best part of 40 years. Tugging her scarf tighter around her ears, she braced herself against the wind and walked out into the shadowy dusk.

Jamie glanced up with little interest as an old lady departed the building and walked quickly around the perimeter of the precinct, then his eyes narrowed as he recognised the stooped figure. Mrs McKellon. The very Mrs McKellon who complained to mum about the noise of his football – as if she could hear it up in her flat – which earned him a wallop and an evening’s ban from Playstation. And that was just her latest attempt to ruin his life; she was at it all the time. Nasty old bitch that she was, he thought darkly. People like her should just hurry up and die and leave us all in peace.
“Jamie, you said you’d give me a shot ages ago!” whined Sean, and Jamie irritably chucked the ball in his direction.
“Shut it a minute” he hissed. “I’m thinking.”
“What about?”
“I said shut it.”
As Jamie watched Mrs McKellon scurry into the quickly darkening dusk, it occurred to him that she looked nervous about something. She kept glancing over her shoulder, and was walking awful fast, even for her. Almost without thinking, he started to cross the concrete wasteland that served as a back garden for the flats, towards her.
“Where are we going?” demanded Sean, scuttling after Jamie.
“We’re going on an adventure,” replied Jamie. “Don’t ask questions or you can’t come.”
“I can come! Mum says you’re to look after me.”
“I don’t do what mum says, Sean, alright? If you’re good and you shut it you can come. We’re going to teach somebody a lesson, it’s gonnae be fun.” With growing confidence, Jamie strode after Mrs McKellon, careful to stay just far enough behind that she wouldn’t see him, but not far enough that he’d lose her. He had to pick his moment just right.
“It doesn’t sound like fun,” worried Sean in a cautiously low voice. “You say a lot of things are going to be fun and they aren’t. You said it would be fun to get into a fight with Tim O’Donnell and it wasn’t. It just hurt.”

The streets were busy; early evening revellers drifted around and irritated those on their way home from a hard day’s graft. Jamie had to duck and weave around secretaries and drunks to keep Mrs McKellon in his sights. He thought that he’d lost her and swore, then started in surprise when suddenly she was standing right in front of him. She opened her mouth to speak when Jamie was grabbed by the scruff of his neck and yanked backwards.
“What d’ye want with Mrs McKellon?” demanded Andrew. Andrew’d been normal, just one of them until a couple of months before when he’d joined the polis. Now he was all Holier Than Though and Jamie couldn’t stand it.
“Well? You’ve been following her ages – I’ve been watching.” Andrew gave Jamie a shake for good measure, which he did his best to pretend didn’t happen. One of these days, it’d be different, he thought.
“Have ye no’ got better things to than follow a couple of wee boys out for a walk in the evening?” Jamie tried to stop his face going red. “I’m just looking after my wee brother and you’re hurting me.”
“Do you think I’m stupid?” Andrew demanded and Jamie thought it best not to answer. “I’ve seen you watching Mrs McKellon and walking right behind her –“
Suddenly, Sean piped up.
“We just wanted to say that we’re awful sorry her husband’s died.” Jamie struggled free of Andrew’s grip. “We read about in the paper and thought it sounded awful so we thought we should pay our respects.”
“Well boys, that is kind of you,” smiled Tamara in her gravely voice. Everyone know that wee Andy was as daft as a brush, but surely these two didn’t think that she came up the Clyde in a spam tin? “Thank you very much.”
“Aye, well, any time,” Sean said solemnly, holding out his hand for Tamara to shake. “It’s a terrible time for you.”
Jamie shook his head in amazement. Look at Sean, the size of nothing, and he did this with every adult. On one hand, he had to admit that it was handy, but on the other, who’d want to be such a goody two shoes nonce?
“Right. You’ve said your piece, be on you way, both of you.” Andrew wasn’t sure how he felt at being so usurped by an eight year old; he just hoped that Mrs McKellon hadn’t noticed. The boys scarpered.

“Would you like me to walk you home now Mrs McKellon?” he asked solicitously .
“You’re alright son,” Tamara smiled ruefully. “I’ve got messages to get before I can get home. Thanks all the same, but don’t you worry about me.”
Andrew watched the tiny wee lady walk briskly into the now almost deserted streets, shaking his head at her tenacity. He hoped he’d be as tough when he got to that age. A moment later, he chuckled to himself as he saw her dart into the bookies’. That was her messages, was it? Well good for her.

Making sure that Andrew was safely on his way, Jamie snuck carefully to the wired window of the bookies’ and peered in. Sure enough, there was Mrs McKellon, a sore thumb amongst greasy men, standing on her own, watching a race. It was a bit funny, he thought, that none of the men were giving her any hassle – you’d have thought they’d at least be teasing a wee old lady by herself, but they kept a respectful distance and Mrs McKellon watched her race in peace. When it was over, she ripped up her ticket, and sprinkled the bits into her huge bag with a satisfied smile, then suddenly made her way to the door. Jamie had to duck behind the windowsill so quickly that he banged his head.

“Are we gonnae mug her? Is that what we’re gonnae do?” asked Sean matter of factly as Mrs McKellon strode off with purpose. Jamie followed her, and Sean followed him, still talking. “I don’t think that’s a good idea and I’ll tell you why –“
“Shh,” Jamie cut him off. “We’re just following her, okay?”
“It’s just that –“
“Shhh—t.”
Jamie had just realized that they’d walked far beyond the roads around home where they were allowed to go, when Mrs McKellon entered a pub. And not just any pub. Jamie was unfamiliar with the surroundings, but he knew the name of that pub, he’d just never seen it in real life before. What was a grumpy old lady going to do in there thieves and murderers and people like that? Against his better wishes, Jamie wondered this out loud to Sean, and Sean – as usual – had a suggestion.
“Maybe it was a different kind of pub in her day and she doesn’t know that it’s changed? She doesn’t seem as though she gets out much.”
That’d be it. Momentarily forgetting his own desire to exact revenge on Mrs McKellon, Jamie worried a bit about her in there. He didn’t know exactly what went on inside the bad pub, but he’d seen enough telly to guess and it didn’t seem like stuff an old lady who spent her days complaining about the noise of footballs should be a part of. Uncertain of what to do, Jamie hovered by the door, Sean by his side, and was startled when it burst open and a man with broken capillaries and rancid breath stumbled out.
“Whit’s a coupla weans dain’ outside here?” The man enquired, leering unsteadily at the boys. “Yous been sent to get yer Da? Well you should leave him tae take a drink in peace, so you should… whit’s wrang wi’ yese? No answering?”
The man lurched towards them and Jamie shrank back in fear, making sure that he was between Sean and the man.

“Leave the weans alone,” came a voice from the shadows, and squinting into the dimness, Jamie saw another man, sitting right on the pavement. He looked happy enough, as if he’d been there a while and had no plans to move on.
“There not dain’ any harm staunin’ there,” he lazily continued. “They’re waitin’ on Tamara McKellon.”
“Is that right?” The leering man had stood up so his face wasn’t right in theirs any more, but they could still smell his breath as he looked them up and down in interest. “That your Gran?”
Jamie thought it best to nod. Suddenly the man’s demeanour changed entirely. “Well gi’er my best. We’re all missin’ Bobby,”
“Aye I will.” Jamie muttered, wishing that he would just go away. Sure enough, he did.
“Nothing to be scared of if yous’re Bobby McKellon’s grandkids,” promised the man on the pavement. “I’m sure your granda’s lookin’ up at the two of you and anybody that causes you trouble’ll be for it, nae bother.” With that he went off into peels of laughter that ended in a hacking cough.
“Jamie, we should go,” whispered Sean urgently.
“I know,” replied Jamie, but somehow he stuck where he was. What was old Mrs McKellon doing in there and how did these men know who she was? Jamie remembered being surprised when dad read out in the paper that her husband had died, he’d never seen an old man about.
The pub door opened again, blasting heat and banter out into the night, and a young couple passed by into the night. Jamie glanced inside. He didn’t see anything other than the normal stuff that happened in pubs, but he did catch sight of Mrs McKellon standing on her own at the bar. As he watched, he barman handed her a short glass with what looked like whiskey in it. She knocked it back and carefully placed the glass in her bag. Jamie’s eyes widened – the barman saw what she did and didn’t say a thing about her nicking the glass!
“Jamie, when she comes out again we’ll definitely go home, won’t we?” hissed Sean. “Mum’ll be going bonkers.”
They shrank back behind the door as it opened a third time ad Mrs McKellon emerged. She glanced from side to side, almost as if she knew they were there, then walked off – in the opposite direction from home.
“ ‘Mon Jamie, you promised.” Sean was hopping about almost as though he needed the toilet, but Jamie found himself, without meaning to, following Mrs McKellon. Sean darted about urgently, but then followed behind too. Mrs McKellon turned a corner and it was just the three of them in a totally deserted, quiet road. Jamie shivered a bit, then remembered that it was only an old lady – nothing to be afraid of. Still, he was grateful for how many bulbs were missing or broken from the street lights – only a couple bravely pierced the darkness and he was sure that Mrs McKellon couldn’t see them.
“Boys” Jamie’s heart jumped out his mouth and he froze, holding Sean’s hand, but Mrs McKellon hadn’t turned around. She was standing right under one of the only working street lights, facing ahead as though she was talking only to the deserted, boarded up tenements; the orange glow that surrounded her making the blackness of her silhouette even blacker. “Boys, you’ve had your fun, now leave an old lady alone, alright?” Mrs McKellon’s gravely voice floated back towards them, seeming almost disembodied, Jamie was frozen in sudden terror, gripping Sean’s hand. Sean stood next to him, seeming to be simply listening in interest.
“If yous go on up this road and carry on straight ahead that’ll be you home again. You’ll only get lost if you keep following me and your ma’ll be having kittens, so on you go.”
Mrs McKellon resumed her walk, carefully looking nowhere but straight ahead.
“C’mon let’s go.” Jamie lunged forward but was held back by Sean.
“No way! What right has she got to tell us what to do?” Sean’s eyes were popping in excitement. “We can walk along the road same as her. It’s a free country.”
“I thought you wanted to go home, now we’re going,” Jamie again tried to head in the direction Mrs McKellon had said was home. A gust of wind threatened to turn the normal drizzle into actual rain, and Jamie knew that if Sean caught another cold it’d be his fault. Not for the first time, he wished he was doing nothing but playing football at home with Sean.
“We don’t know that is the way home,” Sean pointed out. “We only know what she said and she’s an old witch so she could have pointed us in the direction of a load of murderers or anything.” Sean’s voice was too loud, it seemed to bounce and echo off the slick pavement and reverberate to where Jamie was sure Mrs McKellon could hear. “ The only way we know we’ll get home is if we keep on following her because she has to go back there too. Come on before we lose her.
Wishing again that he’d never started the whole thing, or at least that he was wearing a jumper before he strayed so far from home, Jamie resumed stalking.

Not too far down the road, Mrs McKellon entered a grubby corner shop, the kind that smelt funny and mostly only sold stale biscuits and stuff for making roll up cigarettes. Jamie and Sean slunk in behind her. Jamie knew that the shop was too wee for them not to be seem but he didn’t want him and Sean to stand outside on that road. Mrs McKellon gave no sign of having noticed them as they slipped behind the only aisle that there was and stood quietly.
A girl with stringy hair moved aside to let Mrs McKellon go first, but Mrs McKellon told her that she was alright and waited patiently her turn.
“This must be the messages she told Andrew she was going,” muttered Jamie. None of this made any sense to him, and he didn’t think that it was ever going to.
“Aye maybe.” Replied Sean distractedly. “I don’t know about her. Why would she come this far just to get some messages? And why a yuck wee shop like this one?” So intent was Jamie on alternately listening to Sean’s thinking and praying that the shopkeeper wouldn’t hear him, that he didn’t hear Mrs McKellon walk up behind him until it was too late.
“What did I tell ye, ya dirty wee brat?” She demanded in a menacing hiss. Jamie got such a fright that he jumped right backwards and a shelf’s worth of jam and Branston pickles clattered to the floor with an almighty crash.
“Don’t talk to my brother like that!” yelled Sean, and Jamie wasn’t quick enough to catch him from rushing at Mrs McKellon with a head-butt. Andrew was, though. Jamie was relieved and frightened all at once when Andrew materialized from nowhere and grabbed Sean before he collided with Mrs McKellon.
“I knew that the two of you were up to no good,” he announced triumphantly, yanking Sean by the shirt collar as though he was a stray kitten. “Shocking it is, attacking a wee old lady who’s your neighbour no less. No shame at all.”
Sean’s face was going red and Jamie couldn’t tell if it was anger or because he couldn’t breathe because Andrew was holding him so tightly. “I never attacked her she attacked us!” he protested furiously. “We were in here just minding our own business and she came over and shouted and she’d no right!”
It seemed that Sean’s quick talking had overstayed its welcome where Andrew was concerned. “Neither of yous have got any right being around here at this time at all,” he replied grimly. “I am taking you both home.” Andrew strode to wards the door, dragging an apoplectic Sean with him. With sudden bravery, Jamie spoke up.
“I didn’t do anything. You can’t make me go anywhere.”
“I think you’ll find son, that –“ But whatever Andrew thought that Jamie would find would forever remain a mystery as Sean suddenly managed to wriggle free of Andrew’s vice like grip and tear out the door. With a moment’s hesitation and glance at Jamie, Andrew chose to take off after Sean and Jamie could hear their footsteps battering down the cracked road now sleek with drizzle. He didn’t know what do to. Sean and him and both been yelled at before, even by the police, but not chased and never so far from home. It was all out of control and now he was here, alone, with no idea where Sean was or what would happen to him with Mrs McKellon staring at him with ice hot fury and the shopkeeper frowning suspiciously from behind the counter. He decided that brazening it out was his only option.
“I’d be for it if I came home without tea.” The slight tremble in his voice belied the forced nonchalance Jamie affected, casually picking up a packet of dried macaroni and some ketchup. “This’ll do.”
Under Mrs McKellon’s scrutiny, he sauntered up to the counter, and then remembered he’d no money.
“Don’t suppose you’d give me this on tic?” he managed what he hoped was a winning smile while his heart threatened to thump right out his chest and scalding tears of terror threatened. The shopkeeper slowly shook his head.
“Beat it son,” he growled quietly. “Go on efter yer brother.”
“Why should I? I can go where I want.”
“You’re not buying anything,” the shopkeeper pointed out, and Jamie reluctantly realized he had no choice. “So get out my shop.”
“I’m gonnae nick these then!” Jamie had no idea who’d said the words when he noticed that he was waving the macaroni and tomato sauce about, and realized that it was him. Desperately, he made a mad dash for the door, but was halted by the growl of the shopkeeper’s voice.
“Put them down, son.” Jamie whirled around to see the shopkeeper, still behind the counter, pointing a gleaming gun at him. Jamie was dazzled. He’d never seen a real gun in real life before, and to think that it was pointed at him over macaroni and tomato sauce! With a yelp of fear, he dropped his packets, and, trying not to notice that the glass tomato sauce bottle had smashed and its sickly red contents were oozing all over the floor, Jamie scuttled out the door in the direction that he thought Andrew and Sean’s footsteps might have headed.

Manjit the shopkeeper smiled ruefully at Tamara. “Wee eejit,” he mutterered with a chuckle. “Maybe that’ll teach him not to act like such a dipshit until he’s big enough to take it.”
“Aye, maybe,” smiled Tamara, carefully avoiding the spilt ketchup as she approached the counter. “Why’ve you got a gun? It must’ve cost more than the value of this shop. It’s surely not worth it.”
Manjit smiled, revealing surprising gleaming white teeth. “Och it’s no real. It’s a glorified BB, not even loaded. Just helps to keep wee shites the likes of them under control. And, you never know – all they –“ he paused, chosing his words carefully. “—Robberies a while back. I was feart I’d be next.”
“Had you reason to be?”
Tamara smiled, and Manjit relaxed a little. She was an auld lady, no need to watch what he said around her.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“Aye,” agreed Tamara, fumbling in her deep bag. Finding what she was looking for, she emerged triumphantly. “You are.”
Manjit’s heart started to thump as hard as Jamie’s had as he stared in shock at the old, but most definitely real, gun that Tamara pointed at him.
“Shame yours is no loaded.” Tamara grinned, and Manjit caught a brief sight of Glam Tam in her feverishly excited smile.

Jamie stared mournfully out his bedroom window at the murky dawn breaking over the city. He decided that he was happy enough to be grounded for the rest of his life. There was a bit too much to outside for the minute, he thought, watching Sean sleep peacefully.

Tamara didn’t notice the drizzle that dripped down her neck as she worked quickly, aware that the grimy sun would break out of the heavy clouds at any minute. Her knees sunk into the damp dirt as she carefully buried the contents of Manjit’s safe in the soft earth covering a grave. The glass and the remnants of the betting slip joined the cash that was laughably too much to be the takings of a corner shop, and finally, the gun. Tamara had no use for it any more.
“Night Bobby. Sleep well darlin’.” Her words her stolen by the icy wind as she kissed her muddy fingers and touched them to the smooth, freezing stone.

And Now for Something Different...

Bored and a bit miserable with a flatmate I wasn't getting on with and drowning under a theatre company I was too young and inexperienced to handle, I got into an odd and admittedly drunken argument at a party with a girl I had never met before, over where the actor Jason Priestley comes from. We agreed that he was Canadian, but she claimed Toronto while I knew perfectly well it was Vancouver. On and on we argued in that peculiarly drunken way in which every pointless argument assumes life or death significance, and the following say, somewhat more sober but still determined to be right I sneakily surfed the internet (while simultaneously hiding my hangover from my boss - who says I can't multitask?) to settle the score. I never saw her again, most likely couldn't pick her out of a line up now, so I was denied the satisfaction of crowing over being right, but in the midst of my research I fell in love with Vancouver and found myself on a plane headed for a new life in a country I'd never so much as visited nor knew anything about.

Ever since I spent an entire year at primary school carefully escorting an imaginary lion to class with me everyday and solemnly promising all my friends that I wouldn't let her eat them, I have lived with a constant compulsion to be different, to do things more exciting, to live beyond the norm. Throughout my teenage years, when most of my friends were happily hanging round pubs in Guildford and snogging blokes from the local boys' school I was sneaking up to London in search of glamour and excitement, sometimes I found it, sometimes I didn't, but the need to do something other than hang around pubs in Guildford snogging blokes from the local boys' school was too tempting to resist. Who knows: I might have thoroughly enjoyed hanging around pubs in Guildford, I might have even fallen, in the midst of all that snogging, for one of those blokes from the local boys' school - I'll never know, because I never gave myself the chance to find out.

I don't regret the choices I have made, I love maybe 90% of my life which I think isn't bad going, but I am aware that it inevitably goes in fits and starts. For ever weekend I spent flying off to go to parties or concerts on the other side of the world, that I paraglide or kayak (or at least think very hard about doing so) or spend a Sunday afternoon on the rides at Brighton Pier, there is another I spent cuddled up with a book or indulgently in front of trashy tv, on my own. I suppose it's just the way things go really, action and reaction and all that, but sometimes I wonder if, maybe, normalcy might be worth checking out?

I'll see you down the pub...

Admitting is the First Step

I have a confession to make. It isn’t something I am proud of, but you are going to find out sooner or later, so I might as well be the one to tell you. I am watching Big Brother. I can’t explain it, I can’t understand it, I have watched both episodes so far from behind the sofa in horror, but I cannot deny that I am watching it.

For seven years - seven years - I have avoided it like the plague. To be fair, I have spent three of those summers out the country, but still, that leaves four years I have dutifully and determinedly avoided Channel Four, every tabloid and Heat magazine for months on end as I strive never to fully understand who Jade Goody is. It isn’t that I have a massive problem with reality tv per say: anyone who worked at Gap in Guildford in autumn 2002 will testify to my brief but exciting obsession with Fame Academy (no, I can‘t explain it either,) and I could hardly deny in this blog that I casually flicked over to Rockstar: INXS once or twice last summer, but the mere thought of Big Brother has, for years, made me shudder. I suspect it has to do with the sheer pointlessness of it: no structure or activity or competition, not even a real prize other than the chance to feature in OK Magazine on a regular basis for a few weeks. I realize of course that many people would argue that that is precisely the fun of it, and as it looks like I’ll be eating my words this summer anyway, I’d better get my defence ready.

It seems to me that all these series live or die on the characters that feature in them. On Thursday night when my sister was watching the launch show of BB and I couldn’t be bothered moving from the sofa so ended up watching it with her, I could feel (with horror) interest pricking as the house filled with potentially interesting characters and the scene was set for clashes. (Damn you Endemol casting people.) If the contestants are an intoxicating mix of likeable or so unlikeable you can’t tear your eyes away from the screen, then, just like any good drama, you have something. While last summer I started out watching only the performance shows of Rockstar (clinging to the notion that I was only interested to see how INXS picked their new singer) within weeks I was glued to the reality episodes (not to mention the spoilers on the internet boards) for any news about these characters whose journeys I’d become fascinated by. I say characters deliberately, because as far as I can see, the Ty and Jordis and J.D. that we saw on screen last summer are every bit creations of Mark Burnett’s production teams as Jack or Kate or Sawyer are creations of J.J. Abrams. Which brings me neatly to my next point: how much of reality tv is actually reality?

I bring this up because last summer I hated Ty Taylor with a passion. The bitchface when he received less than glowing critique, his “message received loud and clear” comment (which he presumably didn’t even know was an INXS lyric because he’d never bothered his arse to listen to more than Kick) … the fact that he’d never bothered his arse to listen to more than Kick… the bursting into tears over being in the bottom three because he was representing black people (when he could have been sky green pink and still not right for INXS) - I had to stop myself from childishly hissing when he came on screen (that I saved for Suzie MacNeill.) However, months after the show ended, I was dashing around a casino in Vegas looking for my friend Susu to give her someone else’s jacket (as you do) when I came upon none other than Ty Taylor. In the flesh (and not a lot of it, he’s a teeny weeny little man) and right in front of me. Despite my opinion of his personality, I couldn’t deny that he has a great voice and stage presence, so felt it rude not to tell him so. To my astonishment, he took both of my hands in his and thanked me, very genuinely and humbly, smiled and walked on, leaving me standing there gaping like a fish. Shouldn’t the Ty Taylor I knew have laughed and replied “well of course?” Shouldn’t he have recoiled in horror at a prole like me attempting to speak to him and run off in the opposite direction?

Now I realize that neither watching him on tv nor holding his hands for approximately 20 seconds gives me any real clue as to who this bloke is, but my impressions were such polar opposites that it did make me think.

However, despite my best attempt, none of this blethering will distract you from the fact that I admitted I am watching Big Brother. Nor that I had a lump in my throat watching Shabaz crying in the loo last night, and have a bit of a non sexual crush on both Imogen and the gay Canadian. I don’t want to talk about it.

The Word According to Me

I am absolutely thrilled. People finally agree with me.
I have a long history of being the only one to have the opinion that I do: I thought Titanic - highest grossing film since the beginning of time or something - was a load of bollocks, find Coldplay - ridiculously successful in all corners of the globe and particularly within my immediate family - fairly dull and curiously ridiculous, adored Freaks and Geeks - unlike the majority of the American population as it was cancelled after one series, but have never seen the appeal of hugely popular The Sopranos… the list goes on and on. Yet finally, finally, the world (at least the critics so far) agree with me over The DaVinci Code.

Now I am not saying that I didn't enjoy the book. I read it in one sitting during a flight from Vancouver to London (via Dallas - don't ask) and found the central mystery and the ideas put forth absolutely fascinating. But, err, was I the only one to notice that there was no story? Yes, the investigation of the mystery and how it played out could be argued to be the story itself, but in terms of impact on characters (indeed, in terms of characters at all) it was thin on the ground at best. Scenes of talking heads followed scenes of talking heads, with characters suddenly remembering or making connections within information that they possessed before the book started, rather than truly discovering, acting or even reacting within the story itself. All of which is fine really for a novel. As I said, the mystery itself more than made it an absolute page turner - high school English essay level prose nonwithstanding. (Ooh - did that sound as snobbish as I think?!) However, a movie with no story or characters is another matter.

I haven't seen it yet, so am aware that I could be talking out of my hat here, but it has been pretty unanimously slated by the critics. (Most of whom, it has to be said, have admitted that their opinion won't matter a jot as it inevitably hurtles towards outdoing Titanic at the box office.) When I heard about the film, I did wonder how they would deal with the pretty serious problem of the basic staticness of the story. (And no, flying from Paris to London to continue a conversation does not inject any actual movement into a story.) It appears that they have dealt with it… by not dealing with it at all, which suggests to me a pretty excruciating movie. Maybe I am wrong - and I agree with the critics that a minor point like the movie being a bit cr*p is unlikely to make a blind bit of difference - but, for once, it is rather nice that I am not the only person to notice.

More With Honey

It was an article in Cosmo. Circa... ooh, '95? '94 maybe? Featuring very flirty, so-many-men-so-little-time type girls that, at age 15 or so, I was very keen on becoming (actually, at age 27 or so, I still wouldn't mind, but anyway... ) One in particular caught my eye, a Canadian girl who mentioned that her accent was a conversation starter. Her advice included always wearing your hair loose if it's long, and there was a photo of her dancing down a West End street with gorgeous men whirling round in cartoon-ish double takes. I was ever so impressed and decided then and there that when I grew up, I wanted to be Canadian. And in 12 months or so - if all goes to plan - I will be, well, a permanent resident of Canada at least. I'd feel daft with a different coloured passport and have no desire to grow a goatee so won't be going for citizenship, but, close enough, anyway. I am very pleased about it except for one thing: am I going to have to start being nice?

Probably around the same time as reading the article that left me terribly enamoured of those who have a national pride in alarming enthusiasm for winter sports, I had my heart broken for the first time. Can't remember the bloke's name now, but I can tell you that he drove a green car and had a very gorgeous best friend - the best friend being the one I was after when I ended up with the green car man. It didn't take green car man long to cotton on and unceremoniously dump me. Which wounded my ego no end (I'd worn my hair loose and everything!) so I whiled the best part of an afternoon away sobbing in a heart broken manner on my bed hoping that people would bring me cups of tea. However no one did, and I was just on the point of giving up and going downstairs to watch a bit of telly when my dad popped his head around by bedroom door. "Fan-dabby-dozy," I thought, "here we go with the tea and sympathy." I wasn't entirely thrilled to notice that he'd arrived armed with a screwdriver. He sat down on my bed and solemnly informed me that he was going to teach me to change a plug as "it didn't look as though I was going to have a man to look after me."

When this is how I was raised, can you blame me for being completely useless at the glossy have-a-nice-day-ness of the North American continent? I get so stressed by my attempts to smile constantly at strangers that I often end up snarling which doesn't go down terribly well at all.

However, in the grand scheme of things, being nice to strangers is actually the easy part. Where I come from, giving your nearest and dearest a hard time is a sign of affection. In fact, I am so adept at being rotten to those I like that I am sometimes mistaken for Australian. An Australian friend recently commented about a mutual friend that "If I didn't loike him I'd be noice about him!" (I realize that as this was commented in an email it's even less necessary to type in a terrible approximation of an Australian accent, but I can't help it. I am sorry) a sentiment that I thought quite brilliantly summed up the Aussie attitude. In fact, I even wonder if this means I am moving to the wrong part of the Commonwealth. If I was more of a fan of startlingly large spiders, I might reconsider.

Just My Imagination

I was halfway through typing a completely different post, when I saw something walk past my window. I am in the study of my parents house, overlooking their fenced in back garden and it is… 5.39am (yes, I am insane) so seeing something rather large wander into the rose garden is a bit disconcerting. I have no idea what it was, literally saw a vague shape move out of the corner of my eye, but just on the off chance of it being something exciting and scary, my heart is thumping and I have the kind of chills that make my scalp itchy. In reality, it is more than likely the Labrador from across the road who wanders around annoying our dogs from time to time or possibly a fox. But where is the fun in that?

I have always had something of an active imagination. Every Monday morning at primary school, we had to write a diary entry about what we’d done over the weekend. Every Monday morning without fail, I’d write lurid tales of the lion who’d followed me home from the zoo, my (fictional) trip to India to visit my (non existent) best friend’s family, or the ongoing search for my (again, non existent) twin sister who’d been tragically kidnapped. It’s not even as though that was all I had to write about – I remember distinctly my teacher exclaiming in exasperation, “you are moving to PARIS in a couple of weeks! Why can’t you write about that?” it was just that my version of things was so much more interesting. It did get me in trouble once or twice: my mum wasn’t thrilled with me when my (non existent) Indian best friend didn’t show up to my birthday party, despite having a piece of cake and a loot bag prepared for her, and when I (out of sheer boredom) decided to announce to my Primary 1 class that my little brother had been born the night before, my teacher was perturbed to say the least when my very pregnant mum showed up to pick me up that afternoon.

A few months ago, I was getting ready for bed in my flat in Vancouver. I lived alone in a studio in an old-ish (by Vancouver standards) building in the West End, one of the main advantages of which was that the walls were fairly thick so I rarely, if ever, heard anything of my neighbours. So it was a little disconcerting to suddenly become aware of the fact that I could hear a man speaking. Figuring that it must be someone outside, or a neighbour’s television particularly loud, I dismissed it, climbed into bed and shut out the light. Lying alone in the dark, I couldn’t help but notice that the man was still speaking. Not shouting, nor was there any canned laughter around him, just speaking naturally. To be fair, he wasn’t saying “wooohhooo” or anything else that might naturally lead me to believe that he was in fact a ghost, but, as I crossed out anything else the voice might be (phone off the hook? Nope. TV? Nope. Voice from outside? Nope.) I seemed to be left with no alternative explanation. And I was rather pleased at the idea that I had some other worldly company in my flat. I figured that a Canadian ghost would be quite friendly and unlikely to do anything mean or scary like steal my soul or suck me into another dimension or anything else rotten that ghosts are generally apt to do (I think.) He sounded quite young, and I was busily construing a tragic scenario leading to this cute (definitely, cute) young man’s untimely ending when I suddenly realized that his voice was coming from my bag. Try as I might, I couldn’t come up with a reason that my bag might be haunted, so I opened it up for a peek and found, to my utter dismay… my Dictaphone playing back the interview I had done that afternoon with a (I was at least right about the cute part!) former Canadian soldier for a project I was researching at the time. Bum.

I am quite sure that there are deep seated psychological reasons for my pathological need to constantly seek out an alternative to the humdrum of reality. In fact, it might be that there is a tapeworm in my brain that snuck in through my ears as a child and has short circuited the normal functions that…

Anyway, there has been no second sighting of the Creature in the Garden. It was a bit big for a fox, but I will go with that as the most likely option. Until I can think of a better one.

The Boys are Back

Thanks to Jacquie’s comment on my previous post, I can think of nothing else…

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there was an Australian music scene comprised of artists who never had, nor ever would, be in Neighbours. Gruff tough pubs throughout Australia, were jam packed – long before capacity laws ruined everyone’s fun by insisting that every punter needed room to breathe – with people who wouldn’t hesitate to throw things if they didn’t like the music even if they were sober which they weren’t, and this “rock finishing school” produced some seminal late 70s and early 80s bands such as AC/DC, Midnight Oil and Cold Chisel. Much more importantly though, this scene was the birthplace of the greatest funk rock band to come out from Down Under (for proof see the link below to a video of Switched On’s Taste It ;) ) – and in my humble opinion – the greatest live band of all time: INXS.

In addition to their obvious knicker-ruining allure, what has always grabbed me about INXS is the raw edge of their music: the driving funk vibe that is edgier (with the exception of most of Kick) than the slick mass-zeitgeist-appeal of U2 or Coldplay yet still accessible enough to dance to. The energy and at times searing honesty of Don’t Change, Suicide Blonde, By My Side, Not Enough Time or Elegantly Wasted (to name just a few of my favourite songs) proves what a Virgin DJ (sorry had just flicked over and didn’t catch the name of the show!) commented recently after playing New Sensation, that there is “only one INXS.” It was a fitting metaphor that I once heard Garry Beers use in an interview, while talking about the reality show, he mentioned that they were effectively pulling their pants down as a band for the world. Now I realize that it is tempting to allow your mind to stray in a rather different direction at the thought of a trouserless INXS, but stay with me because it also very aptly describes their music and style of live performance. Intoxicating collisions of seductive arrogance and vulnerability, of punk and funk, of hard rock riffs and gently poetic lyrics feature heavily on every album, in every performance, that strike me as a direct result of their baptism by fire (or on some occasions rotten vegetables) roots. Andrew Farriss said in an interview with Guitar Player magazine in January 2006: “The school we came out of was.. pretty rough audiences in Australia’s pubs, and we learned pretty quickly to get on stage, play well, and keep people’s attention. It was entertain or die!”

I realize that plenty of fans were utterly aghast at the news that they were going down the cheesiest route imaginable and using an American reality show to chose a lead singer to replace the irreplaceable Michael Hutchence. I didn’t have an issue with the idea of the band collaborating with a new singer: to me, INXS have always had such a strong instrumental identity that while I wouldn’t dream of under estimating the unquestionable influence of one of the greatest voices, lyricists and charismatic presences in rock, I never felt that their sound boiled down to the vocals. I happily admit, however, to being one of those who reeled in horror at the thought of some Idol-esque travesty and swore never to watch. Naturally within weeks I had to eat my words and by the end of the summer was completely obsessed and screamed and toasted with a cocktail or eight when they made the brilliant decision to name not a replacement, but a worthy successor, in J.D. Fortune.
I could go on forever about the brilliance of this band - and in fact have spent most of the morning editing this post to less than a novel. My most recent concert experience is posted here: http://claireduffy.blogspot.com/2006/03/weekend-inxs.html - but, as they say, the proof is in the pudding. The newly recomplete INXS will play their first UK concert in 4 years at the Shepherds Bush Empire on October 12th (yes I do believe that they deliberately chose my birthday week ;) ) There aren’t many tickets left but I do highly recommend grabbing the last couple – I’ll see you there.

For tickets: http://www.shepherds-bush-empire.co.uk/

For previews: http://p098.ezboard.com/fourbandinxsfrm7.showMessage?topicID=8.topic

All By Myself

Since Monday, I have been trying to come up with something interesting to write about. My brain, however, seems to be on an early summer holiday. I hope that it is enjoying itself and will share its tan with me when it gets back. Out of all the scary things that have ever happened to me (to be fair, there haven't been that many - seeing an unidentifyable snake slither past my tent in California, getting lost in a skanky part of L.A., losing my way and finding myself snow plowing down a black slope last month are the top contenders that spring to mind) - the most heart-stoppingly terrifying situation has to be a blank computer screen and no thoughts.

The odd thing, is that I have thoughts all the time: they cheerfully zoom around my brain as though they have nothing better to do, distracting me when I should be listening to someone talking to me, or working, or figuring out what train I should get on. But when I need them, when I am sitting in front of the computer with an hour before I absolutely have to get ready for work - all of a sudden they are nowhere to be found. And I literally mean no where: I don't mean that I think up stuff then decide it's a bit crap or not what I want to say, I don't mean that I can't think of anything to write about because I am preoccupied with a conversation I had with a friend or an email I must remember to send. I mean that suddenly there isn't a single thought to be found in my entire brain. The echo practically resounds around my entire study so loudly that I am convinced it will wake everyone in the house. I've heard that we use approximately 2% of our brains, or something - so possibly all my thoughts shoot off to the dark recesses of the 98% that I don't use therefore don't know my way around.

I suspect that it has something to do with the fact that I am entirely alone when this happens - while I prefer to write early in the morning, when (in theory) my brain is fresh and there are few distractions, sitting at a computer at 5am watching London's murky sunrise and listening to the dawn chorus creates a slightly disconcering feeling of being the only person on earth. Incidentally, this rarely happened in Vancouver - even at that ungodly hour my West End neighbourhood was teeming with life, from street residents to late night clubbers to certifiably insane joggers (I don't mean that they were jogging while running from aliens, simply that anyone who would get out of their bed at that hour in pursuit of fitness frightens me.) One of the things that I always loved about working in theatre is that it is so collaborative: if we were stuck on a scene and I couldn't come up with an idea, there was always an actor with a long winded ha'penny's worth that would at least scare my thoughts back from my brain's version of the outer hebrides, or an SM or playwright or someone around. It is amazing how ideas breed ideas. But now, having realized that I work best in a team and immediately decided to pursue writing - the most solitary activity I can think of - as a career... it is just me.

Excuse me while I dive into the dark recesses of my brain to try to find some thoughts. I may never return.